This is my psychiatrist's couch. Take from it what you will.
But do leave a note.
I still am a late middle aged former government worker marking time until the cliff.
Short Fiction, Doggerel and Insensitive Opinion are spoken here.
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Friday, March 27, 2015

Madonna and Child (Blogophilia 5.8)

The wail of the ambulance carrying the Mother was fading as
Murray pulled up. Parking behind the line of cruisers, he surveyed the scene. Madonna
and child, Murray thought as the paramedics worked on the little girl. Her
torn, puffy face reminded him of a discarded cabbage patch doll, patched with
gauze and tape. A scarlet stain was oozing from a scrape on her arm. A cervical
collar no bigger than a large washer was placed around her neck, then they loaded
her up in cheery yellow ambulance.

“Where’s she going?”

“Scottish Rite. Hope traffic is light. She’s stable right
now, but that could change.”

How about the Mother?

“She went to Grady. Pretty bad head injury, but she was
coming to when we loaded her.”

With that, the door slammed shut.Several uniformed officers
herded the crowd to the side so they could get through.

One of the relatives took him aside and in broken English asked
if they would be alright. There was nothing to say. It certainly didn’t look
good. With a few words, he assured the man he would find out something. Picking
through the discarded clothes scattered like leaves across the lot, he could
help to wonder what is it about the Graves that provokes tragedy? Some curse on
the land from when the Cherokee were run out? Is that why that bastard Allen
showed up?

The next few minutes were a blur of uniforms and note taking.
Slowly, the story started taking shape. The woman was coming down the hill from
the laundry room with her daughter on her hip, when a beige car came speeding
down the hill, clipping them with the driver’s side fender. All the witnesses
said the car kept going until it parked down at the end of the complex. The
driver exited the car, looked back and then took off through the one of the
buildings. A group of men tried chasing him, but he disappeared back behind the
building.

Jackson signaled him down to where the Corolla was parked.
He took his time, scanning the adjacent buildings for activity. Windows as
blank as paper stared back at him, there secrets seemingly safe. If Allen was
here, he was laying low.

As he approached, Jackson, joined by Captain Hudgins, shook hands
as if it they had not seen each other in years. Old crime scene habits die
hard. Looking down at his notebook, Murray spoke.

“So, the car showing us anything?”

“Not a lot, yet.” Hudgins reached over to flick a leaf off
the damaged fender. “We do know it is Allen’s. He didn’t bother changing the
plate.”

“I don’t think he cares anymore if we know. So where do you
think he went?”

Jackson spoke up. “One of the witnesses said he ran into the
building on the left and exited out the back. We went ahead did a quick sweep of
the units and came up empty. Knowing him, he’s probably around. Want to bring
in K-9?”

“They are en-route.” Hudgins said as lit a cigarette. “They’re
bringing their best handler. We’ll start here and circle around the back of
each building.

“Today is the Fourth, right?” Murray asked

“Yeah, what about it?”

“It's the fourth case in this place in two months. We’re
bringing forth our best men on the Fourth, for the fourth.”

The men broke out laughing. It was the comedy relief they
needed

.

“Your woman keep you up last night?” Jackson asked after he
caught his breath.

With a wink, Murray said. “Let’s just say she was playing my song
and leave it at that.”

He then got serious.

“He’s watching us. I can feel it.”

“Hey, Lieutenant!” One of the Crime Scene Techs shouted from
the rear of the car. “Got something you need to look at.”